


Wouldn't You Think

by justbreathe



Category: Torchwood
Genre: M/M, janto
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-10
Updated: 2013-01-10
Packaged: 2017-11-24 08:22:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/632386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justbreathe/pseuds/justbreathe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>For some reason, they fit, better than almost anyone. The way they lit each others' worlds on fire. The way their bodies fit together, and how they never failed to find one another's rhythm. They needed one another like addicts, always searching, never finding quite enough to keep them satisfied. Not unexpected, after the chemistry they'd exchanged for years, but </i>more<i> than expected.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Wouldn't You Think

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to go ahead and post this, despite that I don't feel it's on par with what Ianto and Jack, and this fandom, deserves from me. It was something of a morning rambling. I don't want my fics to be defined by this piece, either, so I'll hopefully have something much deeper, more emotional, less sexual, up soon.
> 
> I suppose I'm just eager to contribute.
> 
> Here you go, you little masochists. Have some Janto. Careful, it stings.

They were never as timid as one might expect of new lovers. Just because it was Ianto's first time with a man meant nothing to the collective former experience of them both. When they finally reached that threshold, they were more than ready. Little things had already been exchanged; stolen kisses, suggestive touches, the melding of their bodies in the back corners of the archives and the spaces between desks in the hub. Jack was a forward man, after all. He'd taken his time, given Ianto patience enough to adjust to the idea, but he wasn't going to keep his hands off once he'd gotten permission, spoken or otherwise.

By the time they'd reached the final stage, fervent and messy, feverish and desperate, they were like teenagers, itching for that final ounce of satisfaction. They kissed as though they wanted to devour each other, fingers practised and easy but nearly tearing the fabric from between them. They needed one another like addicts, always searching, never finding quite enough to keep them satisfied. Stumbling over one another, grappling for control, and in the end Jack had given it to Ianto, knowing better than to wrest it from him. Not yet, at least. Later, perhaps, but for now, the office boy needed the comfort that came from leading.

For a short time, he'd wondered if that was a mistake, letting him do as he wished, because that was the point at which things became clumsy. Jack had led, then, from follow, taken Ianto's wandering hands and brought them to his lips. When their eyes met, the young man blushed, and it was all Jack could do not to urge him, to ravish him, to shove him against the desk and fuck him till he screamed. Not yet. Patiently, he kissed his knuckles, whispered soft words in a language that was more unconsciously soothing than English, waited until Ianto's breath slowed and steadied, his eyes slipping closed, his body less tense. Calmer, he allowed Jack to subtly take over, one palm coaxed to rest on Jack's lower back, the other on his chest, leaving room for strong legs to pull his captain up and allow them to be placed together. When Ianto gasped in surprise, Jack's lips were there to reassure him, his tongue to distract him while he pulled Ianto's body inside his own. The poor boy was shaking, trembling with the ache of it, and it made Jack's skin prickle with need. Each tiny hitch of breath, each small noise that managed to escape in sputtering rhythm as Jack eased them together, rode him deep, stirred fire in the pit of his belly. It was addicting, he'd give him that. The way Ianto's fingers curled against his skin, scrabbling gently, keeping him close. Not unexpected, after the chemistry they'd exchanged for years, but _more_ than expected.

Vulnerable as he was, Jack paused to let Ianto adjust not to the sensation but again to the idea, kissing his jaw, his face, his mouth, hushing him still, whispering his name in gentle encouragement. Slowly, the fingers once frantic began to trail in reverence across Jack's skin, his own mouth forming words in a language that wasn't English. When he slipped back, Jack realised he was praying, quite literally worshipping Jack and what they were sharing, as though the man were a god, and Ianto was a disciple found worthy enough to worship at his temple.

"Ah, duw, Jack," the words came, softly at first, breathed against the soldier's neck as Ianto's fingertips drew goosebumps across his back. It wasn't the first time he'd wished a lover would say the name he'd lost, that subtle itch behind his ears, but it was most definitely the strongest. "Thank you..." As though he were a gift bestowed, as Ianto began to move, subtly, worried he might damage the man. Jack chuckled at that, glad he was still wrapped around Ianto and against the desk, the angle perfect to guide his lover. He'd learn. A gasp and a soft moan were buried, as though Ianto were embarrassed, in Jack's shoulder, and he was shaking again, although he was determined this time to at least attempt to move with the man. They started slow, at first, gently, a dance instead of the desperate need they'd shared when they began. Revelling in each other, the ceremony as sacred and meaningful as it was sometimes made out to be. Trying to remember the last time it had been this way was almost painful for Jack. Whispers and touches and voices and names flashed through his memory, and it was Ianto who realised after a moment that he was crying. Worried, he'd stopped, but Jack had kissed him that instant and moved harder, faster, until they both forgot and became lost instead in the rhythm of their movements. The taste of their breath and warmth that grew between them. The way their bodies slipped and touched and every cry shared, loud and soft, worship and wordless plea. One movement, and Ianto stumbled from the force of it, sent them crashing at first into the wall, until, laughing, they were dragged to the ground, where fumbling, kissing, touching resumed. They nearly screamed when they reached their first climax, clinging to one another with teeth sunk into shoulders. Jack laughed, Ianto couldn't think, at least until Jack's lips against his ear asked him how much he still had in him. Then he laughed, too, and kissed him, and cussed at him with words Jack knew only from repetition.

For some reason, they fit, better than almost anyone. Maybe better than anyone at all. The way they lit each others' worlds on fire. The comfort, the laughter, and even the tears. The way their bodies fit together, and how they never failed to find one another's rhythm.

The way Ianto's eyes turned up, then down, whenever they were in public together, as though he was afraid of Jack seeing something more than what he'd shared. Ianto's cheeks ruddy from the cold, his neck turning to match when Jack slipped in an offhand comment. Fingers entwined and then tangled, a silent question, an equal answer.

_"I love you."_

_"Don't."_

As the bartender slipped over to refill his glass, Jack waved him off, shook his head, and shot the rest of it back. Money out of his pocket, dropped onto the bar, he closed his eyes, took a breath, and drew his coat around him. The air on Thuria Five was cold, and there was a long night ahead. He needed to be ready.


End file.
